MAGIC

Been looking for the magic.
In the dark unfriendly tragic.
While shadows of the city crawl onto this flesh.
Your lips unfurl a reality.
Sprung out of an intense alchemy.
Making the dying corpse of love, now seem fresh.
I’ll let you come inside me.
And warm against this mystery.
With a hope that when the sun rises, you don’t disappear.
For all of this conjuring.
And deep and mystical soldiering.
Is to but keep me safe, in this darken time of fear.

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FEARS

Mined out of dissatisfaction.
Brought to light in the eyes of the others.
A jewel, covered in dust.
The king with the tainted crown.
Crucified with thoughts of simple salvation.
But how you swallowed that pill.
And into the stomach of the beast it swam.
Licking the bones dry.
Making the devil cry.
Little fears like moons orbit your soul.
Clipping the wings eager to expand.
Keeping your plane grounded.
How heavy those stones are.
Deep in those pockets while you walk into the lake again.
Fears follow you like any bad decision.
Drowning you in a bath of bleach.
Killing you before you ever even lived.

Everlasting

Vanilla fair with the right light.
By design, a moment.
A sting in the eye.
A poster for a lost cause.
Everlasting.
Tumbled down in time and by the grace of God.
To sit there on the tip of my eyes.
Watching as my tongue rolls over.
You play that song and sound my heart.
Banishing ghosts who cling like pith to my soul.
The refugees of love, now grown old.
As the gap between us narrows.
And you become family.
Closer than god.
Everlasting.

Lucent

Consumed the visible but abstract.
Light, after all is but energy with intent.
Allow it to illuminate your veins, choke the strains;
and the dark cancer I could not eat.
Be not like the stirring waxing moon.
Capricious with its vanity.
It’s changing form to its circumstance.
Be strong, like the sun.
A burning fire that cannot ever go back.
Raging with reason, and a deadline to know when to stop.

Dark Matter

Enshrined Poetry

Friend, hide into that dark-
cherry winter conversation.

How does the vine to vine manifest
the continual of dying and coming back?

Seek his question fiercely.
Sense a sorrowful approach,
imperfect blue.
Linguistics the shadow of rusted truths.

For he is a newfound mystery.
You share in this elusive gathering;
beyond form, touch, and time.

Without the weight of mercury,
the icy smack of Neptune,
the toiling of Jupiter, or
Mars, the insufferable.

He is dark matter.
An exotic empty space.

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WHITE/BLUE

(for Naomi and Gina)


The lady of the jars

It was snowing. It always snowed. That’s how she liked it.

The swirling white that enveloped everything, dusting and smothering all in a wonderland. There was more variety in snow she’d always thought. A sunny day was nice, for a trip to the beach or a stroll in the park; but sunny days were predictable, ordinary, and what everyone wanted. Snow, on the other hand created such chaos and difference.

Her cottage was nestled right by the huge stream that swept through the core of the little village of Hamani. It was near enough for her to grab the things she needed from the stores and the like, but just far enough on the outskirts where she could find the solitude and quiet she relished. That’s not to say she was lonely. She was always visited upon by someone knocking on her door and trampling their life into her small little abode. Each day brought something her way, but she always had the choice of opening that small blue door of hers to see what awaited. Some days she would sit by the fire, listening to the rhythmic knocking on the door, picturing not the tired salesman trying to entice her to part with her coins; but instead the small wood pigeons or pheasants tapping their beaks on the wood.

She had been called many things in her time. She wasn’t old, though some days her bones seemed to be. She would bustle around her cottage with the spirit of a teenager, ignoring the small ache in her joints. The cold heightened it, but she would never admit that.

Witch had been thrown her way once. Princess too though, that had been even more painful to hear.

Most saw her as a wise woman with magic, but of the good kind that you knew you were safe to inquire about. She knew the flowers and the herbs, the healing nature of the world that surrounded her small little cottage by the stream with the wood overstretching its reach to her doorstep. People came with their children who would play in the snow and then toast themselves by the fire while their parents would acquire an ointment or potion to help with some pain. Sometimes the kids of the village would come to hear the stories she would tell over huge bubbling cups of hot chocolate. The towering piles of books that dotted her home loomed over all who came there. Hers was a place of possibilities, and it was called ‘Dustings’, and she was the ruler of her own little kingdom.

Though she was an honest soul, people had no idea of the true power that dwelt in her little home. They saw the plants and spices that filled every draw and nook. The witch hazel and birch that swirled in its hued state on the walls. Secrets gained from the botany books and fables that stuck out of drawers and were lodged under table legs. But they did not know, and they never would, of what she kept in her secret room.

It had always surprised her really. No enchantment had kept it hidden, and the noise and light that came from the tiny room at the back of her cottage was enough to entice even the most mildly curious pair of eyes. Yet secret it remained, an indication of the respect many had for her more than fear.

Locked by a tiny key she kept around her neck, the secret room was not large at all. More of a store room usually catering tinned foods or laundry detergent. But here, here is where she kept her jars. Luminous and terrifying, magical and mesmerising. The jars were small really, able to be held in the palm of your hand. Each one filled with light and motion. She bottled them you see, the weather systems. She kept all the aspects of elements, siphoned off into their purest from and bottled. Her own collection of small ships. How she had learned to do this, only she would ever know. But there they are, lined up next to each other on her shelves in her secret place. She would rotate them into seasons, or sometimes calamities. A good thunderstorm would go well with heavy wind and hail.

These bottles were most precious to her, and she never misused them. She was always mindful of the good she could do, and the darkness she would always be able to lighten. Most precious of all were the snow-scapes. The blizzards, and the flurries raging away in their little jars which had cooled to a frosted glass beauty there on the shelf. These she kept in their own section, away from the heatwaves and the monsoons. She would sometimes come and sit by these little vials and watch the dance of the nature there contained behind the glass. A snowglobe of the most literal sense. She wasn’t playing god with her treasures, she was only capturing the beauty of god.

These names the people had for her, she always smiled when she heard them muttered in hushed tones. But to herself, she was always the lady of the jars.


The Visitor

It was a strong blizzard that blew the snow and the ice that day. It blotted out the sunlight entirely, plunging the village in a darkening grey fog. No one left their house except for urgent business, and save for the howling wind, all was quiet. The lady of the jars was anxious, which explained the weather. She would sometimes open up a raging thunderstorm when the bad moods really took hold, but on the days when she was worried, the blizzards came to cover and dispel everything. The paradox of still and motion, certainty and doubt.

She had woken that day with a feeling. Something nibbling at her mind like a bird pecking at her finger. She had pottered about her cottage, finding things to do to occupy her brain. Changing the sheets, dusting the ornaments, cleaning the kitchen cupboards. All to subdue that fretful feeling inside. But her skull itched and her fingers twitched. Something was coming, she felt it in her bones. She knew the something was different, a thing that was to impact her life and change her course drastically. This, in part led to her anxiousness. Though unafraid of change, she worried she might lose her power to bottle the wonders that she had kept hidden and safe. This was the one loss she feared, the change that worried her. Her own priceless art gone.

She looked outside. The flurries had whipped up high on her window and she could barely see to the end of the small path which led to the dirt track towards the village. A lonely lamplight shone off in the distance, the one she knew marked the start of her path. It hummed and glowed pitifully in the blanketing white, like the heart of a huge beast teetering on the edge of eternal sleep. All of a sudden, a loud bang sounded above her cottage. It boomed in through her walls and knocked picture frames off the shelves. She let out a small yelp, and clutched her chest. She knew it was beginning there, on that at snowy day. At eleven o’clock in the morning. She knew, and she suddenly smiled.


Europa down

She pulled open her back door, the wind hurtling inside like an invisible hand knocking through. Though she had control over the weather, it wasn’t an on/off magic that tingled in her fingertips. She knew there was a time delay in which to shift into a new weather pattern. Making the unnatural reasonably natural. She hadn’t even gone to her small secret room to change the weather, her heart was hammering in excitement and she hadn’t bothered. Besides, the blizzard added to the drama that was unfolding in her backyard.

She stepped out into the cold and was suddenly covered with thick snowflakes. Her feet were cold, she had stepped out with only her slippers on, but the pull was hastening forward, caring not a button for the numbing that quickly came in her legs. She pulled her jumper up over her mouth and ploughed on through towards the thing she could see now. She noticed the remnants of stardust peppered across the sky above her. Something had landed and at the bottom of the garden. An asteroid, or could it be…… No, it was alive. Her blood told her that. It pulled and ebbed inside her seeking out the magic of life, seeking out the different.

She made her way forward, her eyelashes thick with snow and ice. He heart was pounding, it drummed in her ears against the wind.

Then suddenly, she was there. Standing over it. In shock for the sight before her eyes. Stardust splattered the snow around. Golden fragments coated the ground and the air, locked in a static tableau of exploding space. The gold drifted off into the air while the stained ground faded to a neon blue. The impact had made a small dent in the soil, like a giant ice-cream scoop and plunged into the earth. At the bottom, covered in stands of blue was what she knew it must be. The fallen. Some called them fallen stars, objects from the cosmos that littered the earth when they tumbled from heaven. She looked in closer, her mind suddenly skimming that book she kept safely locked in her cupboard along with her jars. Then she saw the blue tendrils stiffen, like neon roots tightening around their precious cargo. Bits of snow and dust seeped down in-between each one, melting into a liquid that oozed and formed around the body. Encasing it in a protective shell.

Europa, that was what this is. Her mind had summoned the right passage in her book, she saw it now clearly in the bright blue font that had burst off the page. That book which had come to her from her mother. The secret to her magic and light of heart. It had come before, once before long ago. All the way from another space.

The girl from Europa. Now in a small hole in the bottom of her garden. And she knew there, in the whistling silence that time was short, and things would always be different from here on out.

….to be continued

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Novel indulgence

Burn those books, to fan this flame.
Reaching and groping for a reason.
Oh what lies, between these thighs?
And what lies within.
Voids of sin and saccharine.
Humbly taken from the shelf of life.
Dusted and rusted beyond all sense.
Yet still I thumb the page and pluck each word.
Giving myself over, to a conversation with just me.

Octopus

Cracks in the colossus.
Licking time across new wounds.
Limping and lumbering back into the ocean of your eyes.
Taking lifelines.
That little notepad you kept in your desk.
Right behind your mind.
Scribbling a sonnet for thine truth to break.
And a storm to release.
Sweeping up all the worries and the fish from the bottom of the sea.
I bottled up these sea storms.
The swell in your day.
But you pick and poke at the cork and the corrections.
To then complain that you are soaking wet.
What fable lives now in that oily deep?
What treasures do you covert, claw at and keep?
For in my mind too swim a thousand sharks.
Tasting blood in the water.
And it’s tough, stuck; no longer able to swim.

Allergic

The skin glistens in its milky ruin.
A sweet sweat slithering across the eyes.
What was it you’re allergic to?
Thoughts of entanglement and much divide.
Letting go of the things you hold so dear inside.
This unhealthy pallid state, a diseases sprung from Hade’s lips.
Such suffering in the sulphurous position you are in.
It’s not the love that drives you mad, or turns your inside’s out.
That much I know, for your heart grows.
And blossoms like the spring time trees.
The virility abound like the roots underneath.
Down below.
Yet blood seeps, and oil flows.
The sinking ship of something into the dark nadir of loss.
Allergic, your ego is; to thoughts of love.
Wishing to expel in its fight of flight.
Choosing death over design for life.
So I shall wait, and watch the pools of blood as they rise.
Knowing, in the sticky situation, that your soul is making room.
For us.

Shine

The little lights inside that twinkle.
Burn bright and strong within.
A beacon like a church’s steeple.
To good, to god and sin.
Yet the ones that burn the brightest.
Must therefore burn half as long.
And your flame has burned the shiniest.
So soon, from our eyes you’ll be gone.
But do not let your eyes fall in sadness.
Or collapse into grey despair.
For your light has led the bravest.
Who will always remember you were here.

Unmade

Unravel. After years of waiting, you see what couldn’t be seen.
Underneath, in between the sheets.
Always there, but you were looking in the wrong place.
A paranoid sense of urgency compels you now.
Pulling the cords, tugging at the threads.
Pushing the day into night as you dig deeper.
Down through the bones.
Unmaking my existence.
Hoping to rain inside my soul.
But only fogging up your own eyes.
Blind to the truth and the strength I kept hidden.
Strong inside but you never knew it.
Your destruction of me only lifts the veils and reveals.
That little child you make into a ghost.
I could be anything you want, if you decide to go back.
And make light from all the black.

Love come rescue

Arrived, 4am. Too tired to see the world for what it was.
Slipping into the cracks and shadows that fill my eyes.
Too drunk to notice that I couldn’t notice you.
Standing with arms outstretched like a bird’s wings.
The wren that always had strength to fly.
That slipped into the open wounds and found our hearts.
It patches us up now, flitting inside my skin.
Pulling feathers over broken bones.
But like me, it does not notice the cartilage cage it builds up around it.
It too now needs help. To lift up and soar again.
Love, please come and rescue us all.
Make us fit to fly and leave this place.
With only fallen feathers to show we were here at all.

Claim

I did not choose this future, she said to the dark.
She said to no-one in particular.
They had departed, melted away like last year’s snow.
She waded through the slush of emotions and found her heart warmed.
Not by the sun rising off in the distance.
Or the hand-me-down blanket she wrapped her soul in.
The one she stole from a lover, course and mismatched.
But by the sense of knowing that the day was hers.
Ready to right the ruin.
As she climbed out of her tawdry despair.
Marking her name in red across the calendar date.
Setting fire to the watchtowers in her mind.

A Close call

He watched as his train pulled out of the station, the rain filming over his window, forcing his world underwater. He felt he was leaving, but also that his was going nowhere. How much strength had it taken to board the train? How little they knew of what was yet to come.
The thoughts of all of them stuck to the top of his mouth, fizzing and irritating like a caught painkiller. The chalky taste of unfinished tales and lives he had altered.

The train spend on, the film over the window fleeing faster, washing everything clean but his mind. They left the dirty city and burst into the wide expanse of the countryside. He could see the misty mountains off in the distance. The tops hidden by the clouds and the design of the gods who dwelt there. He remembered his grandmother telling stories of the creatures who dwelt around the base of the Everestian beast, little folk who came to snatch bright shining things and souls. She was always one for stories, but never able to tell the truth. How much of all of this had she kept from him, how much did she pack into that large suitcase and carry off into the grave with her?

The motion of the near empty carriage soothed him, rocking his thoughts back and forth between despair and departure. He didn’t know where he was heading. The train was snaking north, up into the mountainous region, but his body remained deep underground. He was still mining through the hurt to find freedom, despite of where he was being taken.

The memory of the day before found him like a stone is his shoe, irritating him suddenly. He pictured them there, gathered around the small fire with cups of coffee and confused faces. They hadn’t wanted to hear what he was saying. They had hung those flags of favour for too long, and they would not let him tear them down so easily. How could he be sure? They had asked. Was that really what had happened so long ago? Had he done something to give them the wrong idea? All this now swelled inside him like a sickly bile. The actions of a twelve year of raked across a family court. Of course, it was so long ago now, why did it matter to anyone? He heard his mother say this over and over again in his mind. His family leaping like deer to avoid any consequence.

He looked out of the window, trying to focus his thoughts on something else, but for a moment; a nasty jarring moment he had felt it. Doubt. Stabbing him in his chest and needling into his brain. A weaker person would water this seed, allowing the doubt to blossom into tragedy. But he had boarded this train. Packed only what was needed and headed off to somewhere else. These actions warmed his heart, as he knew these were the actions of the strong. He knew then, in the creeping cold of the 10.20 outta state that he would not be reduced by his circumstance. Easy was to stay, and he knew it was always easy to die, but much harder to live.

I brought the rain to the hills

You can rain on me

Singledust

I brought the rain to the hills

I sought the light of the words
away from the darkness of life
to distill the gloom of living

I brought the words for comfort
I sought the solace of rhyme
away from the hurt of memories
to feel the arc of time

“Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.”
– Anais Nin

my view over the jungle hill station Fraser’s Hill Malaysia

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Weighted

The only explanation, to the thoughts stuck in your mind.
Is that the fairy tales so familiar, are just lies on the end of sticks.
Princess you are not.
Cracked though, like a porcelain doll.
Washed up in the flood of life.
God didn’t want to throw you away.
So you stay.
Married and marred to another, while the butterflies escape.
And the eyes of others, circle like filthy black birds.
Keep your eyes open, and follow the stars in the sky.
For the earth will only replace yours with little lights.
Dull black candles.
While the stardust flutters away.

December’s Bridge

Enshrined Poetry

Am I a lie in this etched parallel?
They say what is most disliked,
Remains most true
Are words just a crease of what define’s my reality?

Wrap a hamsa around my eyes
Push the shutter
Stare into that ray of light
Behold the trident
Draw the salt lines
Round and round this dance is for the prong of my shadow

In the separation
In the alcoves, held out way too long
For both sides, a bridge is the reciprocated middle way
Share within the light, share within the darkness
I won’t be disillusioned
My soul already encompasses both

Art: Rikke Ryge

“In freedom, the thoughts of people were consumed with hate, and when living in hatred their thoughts were consumed with freedom.”

https://kabbalah.com/en/concepts/the-nature-of-evil

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Mental Masturbation

The wind blew her northward.
Desert dry and frigidly barren.
Her mind, not her body.
Spent, but ready to burst again.
Like a leaf on the breeze she fell where she landed.
Pouring paint into the world.
Cracking open others soul’s to sneak in and plant diamonds.
She came like Christmas, a beautiful pageant of lights and colour.
Soaking up the grey.
Uprooting the cemetery stones that stuck up like teeth.
She polished them like new enamel.
Dressed in the same clothes she was to be buried in, she was like you or I.
The same skeleton underneath.
Yet she was different.
Feeding the animals in her mind she roared at life, treating it like a circus.
Until she floated away again, when her work here was done.

Lumière dans mes yeux

A crack through the blinds, a spark of light.
Illuminating my innards.
The fog that had rested so coldly upon my soul.
It goes by a name, so sacred upon my lips.
Like a prayer, like mantra.
It twists inside like the snake of time.
Devouring the dark.
Your name, your light.
Blazing across my eyelids when fall.
Steadying my soul when it’s suffocating.
Resurrecting my heart when in need of pulsating.
The light through the wall.

Reveal

The suffering of fools, with each day they add their stain.
A clogging of air that you need to breathe.
Beneath the end, that’s where they’ll find you.
So strong and complete. Underneath.
You want it all so badly, this revelation to tomorrow.
To be remembered and loved for the skeleton inside.
As you bathe in a bath of bleach.
And rinse your soul with turpentine.
Uproot the dark and the dirt that keeps you hidden.
That keeps you displayed for a world of passer-by’s.
This great reveal, behind the curtain.
Under the skin.
Is the world you live in.